final game. Joe looked forward to it with mingled fear and hope.
"How I hate him!" exclaimed Hiram to his crony, Luke, one day after a close game, when Joe's pitching had won again for Excelsior. "I wish I could get him out of the school, or off the nine, or something."
"Why don't you? I thought you and Sam Morton had some scheme."
"We thought so, too, but it fell through. But I've thought of something else, and if you and Sam will help me carry it out, I think we can put it all over that fresh guy."
"Sure, I'll help; what is it?"
"First we've got to get hold of something belonging to him—his knife, if it's got his name on; a letter addressed to him, that he's opened and read; a handkerchief with his name on; anything that would show he'd been in a certain place at a certain time."
"Suppose we do?"
"Leave the rest to Sam and me, if you can get us something."
"I'll do it!" promised Luke. "I'm on the same corridor with Joe now; I changed my room, you know. I shouldn't wonder but what I could sneak in and get something belonging to him."
